


One Time Deal

by the_sock_index



Series: Sock's Rant Meme Fills [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Fantasy, Humor, Inexperienced Sherlock, John in Denial, M/M, Masturbation, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:29:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sock_index/pseuds/the_sock_index
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "The first time John wanked over Sherlock."</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Time Deal

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for prompts [here](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/9328.html?thread=76602736) on the [sherlock_rant](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com) meme.

Later, he blamed Sherlock.

It was all Sherlock’s fault, of course, because who else had such an astounding ability to cockblock his best friend?

In fact, if it were possible to be awarded a degree in cockblocking, than Sherlock Holmes had not only earned his starred first, but had gone on to do postgraduate work on the subject, including several noted fellowships from the most prestigious universities in the land and writing a number of well-respected treatises on the subject.

With John as his hapless test subject and case study, of course.

At other times, John suspected it was some sort of black magic or sixth sense that enabled Sherlock to show up at the worst possible moment and ruin spectacularly any chance he’d had with his most recent date/girlfriend.

The most recent incident, of course, took the cake—much as Mycroft would, in fact, lunge at some of Mrs Hudson’s homemade scones after being stranded on a desert island and recently returned to civilisation. Not only had Sherlock crashed John’s date in spectacular fashion—literally crashed, as in burst through a plate glass window in pursuit of the murder suspect in his most recent case—but he’d managed to insult Sylvia (or was it Cynthia? No, he’s fairly certain it’s Sylvia) by pointing out her skin condition and an apparent case of herpes while calling for John to head the murderer off at the alley one street over.

Of course, he’d been helpless to resist running after the mad bastard and laying out the fleeing suspect at the mouth of the very alley he’d been directed to.

And the worst part, the _very worst part_ , was that he hadn’t bothered to make his excuses to Sylvia—had, in fact, completely forgotten about her until the chase was long over, the case was completely solved, the adrenalin had died down and he and his flatmate had been nearly all the way back to Baker Street and he’d had the niggling sensation that all of the excitement had come at a price.

When he’d realised what that price truly was—sexual gratification—he’d nearly shouted at Sherlock about it, but there was no point in that. It was the man’s fault of course—all of it, not least of which was the fact that he’d trained John to have a Pavlovian response to the sight of danger—but Sherlock was such an expert cockblocker that he’d no doubt defuse John’s anger before they could have a proper row over boundaries and John’s insistence that date nights were, in fact, not nights he wanted to see Sherlock’s face or any part of Sherlock at all, even text messages, is that clear?

So he did what any man in his position would: he had himself a quick, unsatisfying wank in the shower and went to bed, plotting revenge on Sherlock in the process.

And that’s why it was all Sherlock’s fault, since thoughts of sex and Sherlock and danger and revenge got muddled and confused in his head that night, gifting him with confusing dreams in which Sherlock played a central role and which left John, the following morning, painfully aroused and stuck with the image of the Great Detective naked, on his knees, and desperate to make amends to his irate flatmate.

John, despite his best efforts, could not erase that image from his mind. In fact, it seemed to grow in detail, until he was certain he could picture exactly the way Sherlock’s plush cupid’s bow mouth would look wrapped around his cock, or hear the slurping and sucking sounds that he’d make as he swallowed. As the day went on, he began to imagine exactly the mix of humility and eagerness that Sherlock would approach him with, a certain tilt of his neck and head that would set fire to John’s blood and make his palms itch with the need to grab Sherlock’s curly hair and force him to his knees.

By nighttime, John could no more stop himself running up to his room, locking the door, and dropping his trousers to fondle himself than the sky could help being blue or Sherlock could help being an arrogant prick.

Sherlock’s prick…

John shucked his pants and made his way over to his nightstand, digging around until he found the bottle of lube that was nearly empty. Squirting a generous helping into his palm, he took a deep breath to brace himself for the temperature and still nearly hissed when he started spreading it over his cock.

It warmed after a moment, though, and his mind turned back to the fantasy, a one-time deal he assured himself, a bit of comeuppance for the Great Detective. The fact that he absolutely did not want said Great Detective to _know_ about his humiliation at the hands of John’s imagination went without saying, of course.

Still, he could hardly deny that it would make an arousing picture: Sherlock—his pale, slim body naked, his face desperate to please and terribly contrite, gracefully falling to his knees and begging John to forgive him.

John groaned, stroking himself to the idea of it, the way that Sherlock would willingly, eagerly, take John’s cock into his mouth and suck enthusiastically. God, Sherlock would probably be clumsy, not very talented, but would make up for it by learning quickly and letting John guide him.

Those pale eyes would look up at him—adoring, desperate to be forgiven, to please—and his mouth would be perfect and sweet around him.

The Sherlock of his imagination would have no gag reflex of course, so John would be completely at liberty to grip those dark curls in his fingers and plunge himself into that open, hot, wet throat.

And, fuck, the noises Sherlock would make—half-choking, half slurping, all eager desperation, willing John with those eyes to tell him what to do, to teach him, to come down his willing throat and make him swallow it all.

“Fuck,” John grunted, spending himself, not even caring that he’s splattered it on the bed and on his stomach. He’ll have another shower before bed, clean up the evidence, and chalk it up to releasing some tension.

As he showered, as he rinsed the evidence off of himself, he blamed Sherlock.

And he carefully locked up that part of himself eager to relieve the experience. One-time deal, after all.


End file.
